


The Long Road

by icandrawamoth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Artistic Liberties, Bedside Vigils, Crying, Hurt/Comfort, I did a bunch of research on radiation poisoning but also went for that artistic license so..., I'm Bad At Summaries, M/M, Medical Conditions, Serious Illness, Sick Character, Sickfic, Vomiting, Whump, radiation poisoning, yes in Hell Divers they call toilets shit cans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 16:53:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16433261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: When his radiation suit is damaged during a crucial mission, Tycho refuses to evac even to save himself. What follows is a long, excruciating road no one but Wedge believes he can survive. Then again, Wedge might just be in denial.





	The Long Road

**Author's Note:**

> This AU is based on the Hell Divers books by Nicholas Sansbury Smith, though you don't have to have read them. (Honestly, it's just a jumping-off point for whump and angst here.) The concept is fairly simple: over two centuries ago, World War III made Earth uninhabitable, and since then the last of humanity has been living on dilapidated airships circling the globe. Hell Divers are essentially paratrooper-types who dive to the surface to gather supplies for the ships.

There's no lightning, no wind even – it's as perfect a dive as Wedge has ever experienced. He hits the ground first and looks up to watch the rest of Team Rogue landing around him. Wes, Hobbie, Tycho, all safe and secure. It actually makes him smile. _Great start._

He focuses on his HUD and takes in where the supply crate has landed, and that's good too: the technicians have managed to drop it only a few hundred yards away. It's the work of only moments for the four Hell Divers to pack away their parachutes then they head for the create.

Halfway there, things go to hell. The unmistakable cry of a pack of sirens splits the air, and Wedge winces. They aren't supposed to be populous in this area, but it was was more than he could hope for for none to show up at all.

He levels his blaster at the burned-out shell of the building the noise had come from and calls into his comm, “Keep moving.”

The others are do as he says, weapons similarly aimed back toward the threat, and then it's happening, a dozen of the creatures stampeding out of the building. Wedge holds back a shiver of horror – seeing the leathery humanoid beasts with their spikes and blank faces filled only by sharp teeth never gets easier.

He fires, and the lead drops to the ground, spraying dark blood. The rest of the mutants simply part around it, loping forward on all fours. More shots join Wedge's, and he can only guess it's Wes who takes out two in a row with unerring headshots.

The divers nearly at the crate now; he can see it among the buildings. There are only two sirens left, then one–

It drops just as Wedge hears a strangled cry across the comm and whirls to see the red-suited body of one of his men on the ground, another siren atop it. He curses, doesn't have time to wonder where the beast came from as he aims.

One of the other divers is quicker, his shot tearing through the mutant's shoulder, distracting it until, half a second later, another blast tears through its chest, depositing it on the ground for good.

Ragged breathing and rushing blood fills his ears as Wedge stumbles forward. The member of his team on the ground is slowly rising to sit, and relief floods him, especially when he sees a flash of blond hair through the visor and realizes who it is.

“Tycho-!” he cries, finally reaching his partner's side and dropping to his knees.

“It didn't get me,” Tycho says shakily, but then he's shifting and Wedge loses all his breath.

Tycho's suit is torn, a jagged rip from left hip to armpit, testament to the siren's razor-sharp claws. “Didn't get you?” Wedge repeats, voice high with panic.

“I'm not bleeding,” Tycho says, but Wedge can see the way he has to work to keep himself calm.

“You're going back up to the ship,” Wedge says, command reasserting itself over worry. He stands and moves to tug Tycho to his feet. “The radiation here is–”

“No, I'm not.” Standing now, Tycho sets his jaw and looks at him. “The _Republic_ needs those fuel cells. We have a mission.”

“One we can do with three of us,” Hobbie pipes up from where he and Wes are standing a little ways away watching.

“Go back to the ship, Tych,” Wes insists. “The radiation–”

“I'm not leaving,” Tycho insists. His blue eyes burn into Wedge's. “I'm not leaving you.”

Wedge steps into his partner's space, almost like he's going to embrace him, but instead his hand darts out for Tycho's booster–

Only to have him jerk out of his reach. “I'm serious, Wedge! Are we going to waste time standing here arguing?”

Fuck. No, they can't. If Tycho is going to refuse to evac, they have to get this done _quick._ “Get to the crate,” Wedge says stiffly.

The four of them move, gathering the more advanced weapons from the supplies, and Wedge watches from the corner of his eye as Tycho finds a patch kit and fixes up his suit as best he can. It won't be enough. They were never designed for damage this extensive, and the repair won't be completely rad-proof. All the Rogues know it.

Wedge glances at the mission clock on his HUD. They've been on the ground less than five minutes. With luck, they'll be on the ship again in less than an hour. He prays that won't be too late for Tycho.

His estimation turns out to be right. The only other difficulty they come across is a single stone mutant guarding the entrance to the ITC warehouse they're after, easily dispatched, and then there are the fuel cells, right where they were promised. They get them loaded into the supply crate, and Wes pulls the boosters, helium filling the balloon that will carry it skyward for the _Republic_ to retrieve, for the mechanics to install and keep one of humanity's last hopes flying.

Wedge gives one last quick look around, sees no threats. “Engage boosters,” he commands. “Tycho, you first.”

“Right, boss.” Though he's been alert and responsive for the last hour, now Tycho's voice doesn't sound quite right, and his hand fumbles as he reaches for the controls. He gives Wedge a half-smile. “See you topside.”

Wedge watches the balloon go up, his partner rising into the air, and makes himself look away at the others members of the team. He gives them a nod, watches them follow, then activates his own booster.

 

They land in the airship's launch bay, and Wedge can rarely recall being so anxious. The second his balloon deflates and deposits him on the ground, he's at Tycho's side. The man has already gone to his knees, slumped over like he can hardly hold himself up.

The disinfectant spray hisses down around them, beads of it running across their visors as Wedge struggles to get a look at Tycho's face. He calls his name, gets a quiet grunt in response. Wedge is vaguely aware of a crowd gathering at the edge of the transparent dome that separates them from the reset of the bay – technicians, medics, and command staff come to see how the mission went. He prays for the disinfection process to finish quickly so the medics can take Tycho away, can _fix_ him, make him better.

They all know how bad radiation poisoning is, and, god, Wedge regrets already. It was stupid for Tycho to stay, it was stupid for Wedge to let him. He should have made him evac, he should have _demanded_. But it's too late now.

“Wedge,” Tycho gasps, reaching for him. Wedge squeezes his hand, hand enough for him to feel it through the thick gloves. “Not your fault.”

The dome rises, the remaining mist from the sterilization spray being drawn away into the ground vents, and the medics and techs rush forward, throwing questions and concerned looks. Wedge pulls off his helmet and answers them as best he can, repeats the rad readings from the surface, confirms how long they'd been there, exactly when the tear in Tycho's suit had occurred. He does everything he can, and then Tycho is being lifted onto a gurney and rolled away, leaving Wedge behind feeling only helpless.

“Boss?”

Wedge turns to see Wes and Hobbie behind him, helmets under their arms, faces drawn. Wes, who had spoken, reaches out to lay a hand on his arm. “Let's go get undressed, huh? Then you can go see him.”

Wedge takes a shaky breath. “Yeah. Okay.”

 

He doesn't even bother to shower, just shucks off his armor and suit and stuffs them into his locker, pulls on his everyday uniform and literally runs to the ship's sickbay. A few people try to stop him, to ask questions about the mission or about Tycho, but he ignores them.

In the sickbay, he skids to a halt and looks around. The dozens of beds are mostly full, and he has a hard time spotting his partner. Then, in a far corner, he sees a bed that's had a curtain pulled around it, a stream of doctors and nurses coming and going. He sets forward and is halfway there when a hand catches his arm and spins him.

“Wha-?”

“Wedge, I need to speak to you.” It's Dori Varss, one of the doctors on the _Republic_ who specializes in dealing with the Hell Divers.

“I need to see Tycho.”

“That's what it's about.” She tugs on his arm, and though he aches to do it, he follows her into her office. She shuts the door and directs him to a chair, which he perches on the edge of, already eager to leave again.

“Wedge,” Varss says, “I don't have to tell you how bad this is. I'm not going to sugarcoat it. With the radiation levels Tycho was exposed to and the amount of time he spent on the surface, his odds of surviving aren't good.”

Wedge clenches his hands on his knees, though he knows his gaze is pleading. “You can treat him. There's a chance–”

But Varss is already shaking her head, stepping closer and bending to be on Wedge's level. “Listen to me. Even with treatment, the mortality rate for this kind of exposure is too high compared with the level of treatment he would require. We're talking fluid, plasma, and electrolyte replacement, platelet transfusions, bone marrow transplants, possible surgery, and a whole litany of drugs. All for a maybe twenty percent chance he'll still be alive a month from now.”

Wedge's gut goes cold. “You're saying it's not worth trying.”

“I hate it as much as you do,” Varss tells him. “But it's orders from on high. We only have so many medical supplies, and we can't waste them on hopeless cases. I'm sorry. You saw how many people are in those beds out there.”

“You're just going to let him die.” Wedge's voice sounds odd, distant, even to himself. “You're not going to try to save him.”

“Wedge, listen–”

“No, you listen!” He bolts to his feet. “Tycho is a Hell Diver. He helps keep this place running. Without him, you wouldn't be alive! No one would! He deserves better than this!”

Varss is standing again, giving him a sympathetic look, not at all affected by the tirade. “Take it up with Captain Ackbar, Wedge. My hands are tied.”

 

He does. He marches to the bridge, demands to be let in to speak to Ackbar. He and Wedge have been friends for years; the captain has to listen.

Only he doesn't. He shows more regret, more understanding then Dori Varss, yet his words are the same. The cost isn't worth the pitifully small chance of success.

Wedge rages and shouts and barely holds back tears. Ackbar knows what Tycho means to this ship, he insists. He knows what he means to Wedge. He calls the captain every name he can think of, spews threats and demands until the two militiamen on the bridge start edging forward and Ackbar has to wave them away.

“You'll recall when my wife developed cancer,” Ackbar reminds Wedge, voice quiet and steady. “In the old world, there would have been experimental treatments, long-shot attempts to keep her alive. Here, now, I had to let her go.”

All of Wedge's words abandon him. Of course he remembers. He turns silently and leaves the bridge, hating everything in this horrible world.

 

Minutes later, he's back in Varss's office. “There has to be something I can do,” he says to her, and he's no longer angry, just desperate.

“Take him to your quarters,” Varss says gently. “Let him be in familiar surroundings. Be with him. Make him comfortable. It's going to get bad before it ends; you know it, and so does he.”

The words hit Wedge like a blade to the heart. All this time he's been running around advocating for his partner, Tycho has been alone, that same knowledge in his head. Wedge can't imagine how he must feel.

“Can you at least give him something for the pain?” he manages.

Varss's face creases in sympathy. “I'm sure I can spare at least that much. I'll put something together.”

“Thank you,” Wedge whispers, and then he's gone.

 

Tycho is alone inside the curtained-off space, resting in bed. Wedge aches just at the sight of him. His skin is red and blotchy, stress at the corners of his closed eyes. They flicker open at Wedge's footsteps.

“How are you doing?” Wedge asks, and flinches inwardly. What a stupid question.

“I think I'm dying.” It comes out like it was supposed to be some sort of weak joke, but Tycho just sounds scared.

Wedge takes takes his hand, grateful there are no radiation burns there. “No.”

Tycho leans toward him a little like just Wedge's presence is a comfort. “The doctors stopped coming in a little while ago. They didn't seem to be doing much before that either.”

Tears threaten at the edges of Wedge's vision. He shakes his head mutely.

“When I asked, they said you were talking to Varss and the captain. What did they say?”

Wedge swallows hard, squeezing Tycho's hand. “They're refusing to do anything for you. They don't believe you can make it, even if they help.”

Tycho is silent for long moments, then he just nods once. “They're probably right.”

“Tycho–”

“Shh.” Tycho's fingers tighten around his. “If they're giving me up for dead, do I at least get to leave this place? The halogens are giving me a headache.”

It would be pointless to say that's probably the radiation. Wedge nods and manages to wet his throat enough to say, “Yes. I'm taking you back to our quarters.”

Tycho's answering smile is fragile. “I like the sound of that.”

Wedge is helping him to sit up when Varss enters the cubicle carrying a small bag. She looks at the two of them for a moment before offering it to Wedge. “Painkillers and antiemetics,” she explains. “I labeled them for you. Give him as many as he needs.” She looks at Tycho and adds more quietly. “I am sorry. There's still a chance. We're all pulling for you.”

“Thank you,” Tycho murmurs, and the doctor disappears again.

 

Wedge barely manages to get Tycho back to the one-room quarters they share. He's already weak from the radiation poisoning, limp and dragging by the time they get there, collapsing onto the bed as soon as it's within reach. Gently, Wedge eases off his boots and bodysuit, wincing at the collection of burns underneath. He helps Tycho into a soft, faded set of pajamas and settles him into the bed.

“How do you feel?” he asks quietly as he eases down next to him.

“Mostly tired,” Tycho answers, looking up at him with blue eyes that already seem dulled. “A little nauseous. And there's that headache.” His eyes flicker away, and Wedge sees him shiver. “I know it's going to get worse.”

“I'm here,” Wedge promises, and it feels so inadequate, but if it's the only thing he can do, he's going to do it. “I'm not going anywhere until you're better.”

Tycho gives him a weak smile. “I know.”

Wedge tries to breathe, tries to think. “You should eat something,” he decides, “then get some rest before the worst of it hits. Do you think you can do that?”

“If you make me something, I'll try to eat it.”

“Stay here,” Wedge tells him. He leans in to kiss his forehead lightly, then tears himself away from the bed. “I'll be right back.”

He works quickly from the rations they've been afforded, meager even for the Hell Divers, though they're more than the average person is allowed. He drops a few slices of lumpy homemade bread onto a plate and carves a few bits of cheese from their block to add to it, then takes the plate back to where Tycho rests along with a glass of water.

“I don't think this will upset your stomach too much,” he says, a faint question mark in it.

“I think it'll be okay. Help me sit up?”

Wedge does, and Tycho leans heavily against him as he eats, slow and deliberate, his eyes fluttering in what must be either exhaustion or pain. Wedge can't bring himself to ask. He just holds him, trying to convince himself he's not watching Tycho die. This isn't how he's going to have to remember him, weak and preparing himself for death. Defeated.

Tycho finishes maybe half the food and takes a few sips of water before he murmurs that he can't take any more. Wedge lowers him back down to the pillows and asks if he needs anything.

“A painkiller?” Tycho asks softly. “The headache is getting worse.”

Wedge gets him one, notes that what Varss has given him is stronger than the average, then lays down beside him. “Sleep,” he encourages, Tycho's his hair soothingly. There's a lump in his throat at the thought he might lose it, but that's the least of their worries. “You're going to need your strength.”

“Okay,” Tycho whispers, and his voice trembles just a little as he snugs close to Wedge and lets his eyes drift closed.

Wedge doesn't let himself fall asleep. He probably couldn't if he tried. He's going to be here for Tycho when he wakes, because he knows this ordeal has barely started. He's going to be here, he's going to help him, and Tycho is going to _live_.

 

An hour or two later, Tycho is awake again and wrenching himself from Wedge's arms to stumbles across the room, dragging the door to the bathroom open and dropping to his knees. It takes Wedge a moment to process, to take in the sound of him retching, before he's up and following him, kneeling at his side with a hand to his back as Tycho shudders and heaves, emptying himself into the shit can.

“Easy,” Wedge murmurs, trying to calm his own racing heart as Tycho only whimpers in response. He gags again, coughing weakly over the bowl, fingers trembling on the rim.

Wedge wraps an arm around him, trying to support, give comfort, _anything_. The back of his hand brushes Tycho's cheek, and he gasps. He's burning up, the fever somehow having skyrocketed without Wedge noticing.

“I'm going to get a cold cloth,” he murmurs. “I'll be right back.”

He makes himself leave Tycho's side, wincing as he hears him vomiting again, then he's back with the damp rag, gently spreading it across the back of Tycho's neck, feeling him shiver into it.

“Thanks,” Tycho rasps, “feels...” He trails off and hunches over the shit can, convulsing for a moment, though nothing comes out. He sighs, relaxing minutely again, crossing an arm over the rim and laying his head on it.

“You feel worse,” Wedge says worriedly, not a question, but Tycho confirms it with a soft, pained sound.

“Everything hurts,” he whimpers. “My head-” He pauses, squeezing his eyes closed for a long moment. “Dizzy,” he manages finally. “Head hurts.”

“And this isn't helping. I'm sorry.” Gently, Wedge removes the cloth from his neck, folds it over to a cooler side and reapplies it to his fevered skin. Then he remembers the antiemetics Varss gave him. “The doctor gave me some pills for this. Do you think there's any chance you can keep them down long enough to help?”

“I don't know,” Tycho answers, and he sounds so helpless. “I don't know, Wedge. I don't–”

“Shh.” Wedge rubs his back gently. “I'm going to get them, and we'll do the best we can, okay?”

“Okay.”

They manage to get the pills into him, though they stay near the shit can for awhile, Tycho leaning heavily on the rim, Wedge flitting anxiously beside him. The smell of composting waste drifts up from the opening, sour and strong, and it's beginning to make Wedge queasy as well. It can't possibly be helping Tycho on top of what he's already suffering.

“What if I get you a bowl and we move you back to the bed?” Wedge suggests. He smooths a lock of sweat-soaked hair back from Tycho's face. “How does that sound?”

“Okay,” Tycho agrees again. He shifts a little but doesn't rise. “I need you to help me.”

“Of course, love.” Wedge guides him to his feet, alarm flashing through him at how heavily Tycho leans on him for just the handful of steps it takes him to return to the bed. He gets the bowl and sets it nearby, then takes his place beside him again. “What more can I do?” he asks. “Anything.”

Tycho's eyes are closed as he huddles on the bed, face pressed into the pillow. “I don't know,” he murmurs.

Wedge eases himself down beside him, trying not to jostle the mattress, and touches his hand. He can't seem to stop touching him, can't stop thinking in the back of his head that this may be the last time. “Talk to me,” he begs.

Tycho's eyes slide open, and in them, Wedge sees pain and fear that make his heart ache. “I'm scared,” Tycho admits softly. “I don't want to die, Wedge.”

Wedge chokes back the sudden sob that clogs his throat.

“I was never afraid of being dead,” Tycho goes on, voice ragged. He keeps pausing every few words, eyelids flickering as waves of pain and nausea wash over him. “I would never have become a Hell Diver if I was. But dying...” He swallows hard. “Dying I'm scared of. Especially like this.”

“You're not going to die,” Wedge makes himself say, steady and solid. “If you believe you are, you've already lost.”

The tiniest smile graces Tycho's face. “Okay, boss. I'll remember.”

Wedge breaks the moment forcefully by retrieving the glass of water he'd set on the bedside table. “Drink,” he instructs. “We can't have you getting dehydrated. I know you're not going to be hungry, but you need to be eating, too. You need your strength.”

“I know.” Tycho drinks as much as he can, then hands the glass back with a shaking hand. “I'm just so tired.” His head lolls against the pillow. “Everything aches. I've never felt like this before.”

“Your body has never gone through this shit before,” Wedge says, trying not to picture Tycho's very physical existence breaking down on a cellular level. “God, Tycho, that was so stupid. You should have left when I told you.”

Tycho takes his hand again. “Who would have watched your back if I left?”

“The other Rogues.”

Tycho laughs, and it turns into a weak cough. “Yeah, I suppose,” he manages at last.

Wedge squeezes his eyes closed. He aches with all the things he wants to say. He wants to be angry that Tycho disobeyed him, that he put everything else above himself, and now he's dying for it. But he can't, because Wedge knows he would have done the same thing. Hell Divers all understand their lives aren't important. They dive so humanity survives, and if it kills them, well, that's the price they pay.

“I love you,” is what he says. “I mean it.”

“I know.” Tycho looks at him, blue gaze intense despite how the rest of him shivers and seems to waver between life and death. “Whatever else happens, you know I love you too.”

 

Tycho is sleeping again when there's a knock at the door. A quick glance at his watch shows Wedge it's been eight hours since the fateful mission. Another knock, and Tycho stirs, but his eyes are still closed, and Wedge soothes him quietly before going to answer the door.

A distant, optimistic part of his mind hopes it's Ackbar or Varss come to tell them they've changed their minds, but of course it's not. Wes and Hobbie stand there, both looking anxious and worried.

“How is he?” Hobbie asks, trying to peer around Wedge to get a look at Tycho.

Wedge gives his partner a long look, then steps into the hall, closing the door nearly all the way behind him so even the hushed conversation won't disturb his rest.

“Bad,” he answers finally, the word shaking out of him with total honestly. His hands come up to cover his face, and he's not surprised to feel tears there. “He's so weak, and he's burning up, and he's in so much pain.” Wedge pulls in a shaky breath. “I'm so scared I'm going to lose him.”

Arms wrap around him, and Wedge leans into them, feels himself cradled between the other members of his team. He can't show this in front of Tycho, he can't put the extra pressure on him, but he needs to let it out, and Hobbie and Wes are there for him.

“Can we see him?” Hobbie asks at long last.

Wedge tries to rake himself back together, stepping away from them and pressing a sleeve to his face to soak up tears. “He's sleeping.” He doesn't want them to disturb him at all. If even a moment more rest can turn the tide in Tycho's favor, he needs him to have it.

“We just want to see him,” Wes clarifies softly, and Wedge finally notices the sheen in his eyes as well. “If he's really...” He trails off and looks away.

Wedge doesn't know what to say, but he's saved from having to respond by Tycho's soft voice. “Wedge?”

He's back in the room and at his partner's side without even having to think about it.

“You were gone,” Tycho says, gazing up from the bed in what looks like genuine confusion. Wedge isn't sure if it's sleep or the radiation addling his brain.

“Wes and Hobbie were at the door,” Wedge confesses, and his heart leaps when the words make Tycho brighten a little.

“They're here?”

“Yeah. Guys?” Wedge calls, and turns to see them peeking inside. At his word they come in, gathering around the bed.

“Hey, Tych,” Wes says, giving him an awkward little wave. “Hanging in there?”

“Doing my best,” Tycho answers, and his smile is ragged but there.

Hobbie remains silent, standing a little behind Wes, seeming to have no idea what to say.

“I'm not dead yet,” Tycho adds, trying to force some levity into the room.

Wes is blinking quickly, and Wedge thinks if one of them breaks, the entire room is going to fill with tears.

“We should probably let you go back to resting,” Wes croaks. “We just wanted to see how you were.”

“See you soon?” Tycho asks.

“Soon,” Wes promises, and he takes Hobbie's hand and pulls him out the door.

As soon as they're gone, Tycho collapses back to his pillow, breath going jagged and sharp.

Wedge's hands flutter over him anxiously. “What is it?”

“Nothing new.”

Wedge suddenly understands. “You were hiding from them how bad you really are.”

“Yeah.” Tycho gropes for him.. “It hurts bad, Wedge.”

“I'm here,” Wedge promises, and the words are inadequate, but they're all he has. “You can fight this. I believe that, Tycho.”

Tycho nods, a limp roll of his head. “I wouldn't want to let you down.”

“You never have,” Wedge says, fiercer than he intended. His grip on his partner's hand tightens. “And you won't now. Rest some more, and in a little while I'll make you something to eat.”

Tycho makes a soft sound of agreement, and he's drifted off again before either of them can say anything else.

 

It goes on like that, slow hour by slow hour. Tycho spends a lot of the time sleeping fitfully, Wedge by his side keeping silent vigil. Every once in a while, Wedge wakes him, helps him take in some water and food. Mostly he just watches, silent and worried.

From time to time, Tycho wakes. He's bleary a lot of the time, distant and sore as he lets Wedge help him to the bathroom, soothing his fevered skin with cool compresses as he vomits up another round of his medicine. Wedge wants to keep giving it to him, but they only have so many, and he knows Varss won't supply them with more.

Two seemingly endless days crawl by. Then, in what feels like an actual miracle, Tycho starts to improve. He keeps down more food, drinks more, is just generally more present and lively.

Wedge could cry with relief as he brings him a plate of bland food on the third day and Tycho sits by himself and clears it entirely.

“You feel better,” Wedge says, the words trembling and hopeful.

“I don't feel like I'm actively dying,” Tycho says, and when he smiles, it's so beautiful.

 

Wedge knows how radiation sickness works, though, and he knows this isn't the end. Tycho may feel better, but he isn't out of the woods. This what they call the “walking ghost” phase, when the initial symptoms have faded, but the worst is yet to come.

They both understand. Tycho's body is still dying, many of its rapidly-dividing cells destroyed by the radiation. The effects simply haven't caught up with him yet. But when the remaining undamaged parts are used up, and there's nothing to replace them...

They know it's coming, but Tycho won't focus on it, and he won't let Wedge either. Once he feels well enough, he insists on meeting the rest of Team Rogue at the bar and catching up, though he only drinks water and still stays close to Wedge. Hobbie and Wes are happy to see him, seemingly reassured by how much better he's doing. Wedge doesn't have the heart to tell them it's meaningless.

Captain Ackbar stops by at one point; Wedge has the sneaking suspicion one of his friends contacted him while Wedge wasn't looking. The captain is kind. He strikes up a conversation with Tycho, wishes him well, says he looks forward to having Team Rogue active again. Tycho smiles and talks animatedly about his return like it's inevitable.

Everything feels so normal, and it stays that way until Wedge and Tycho get back to their quarters. Wedge is fishing for his pajamas when hears Tycho let out a trembling sigh and turns to see him perched on the edge of the bed, face in his hands.

Wedge is at his side in an instant, hands on his arms as he asks what's wrong.

“I'm okay,” Tycho says softly, and he lowers his hands to look up at Wedge, blue eyes red-rimmed and shiny. “For now.”

“Tycho...”

Tycho bites his lip, blinking away tears. “I know it's not over. Just because I'm alive now doesn't mean I will be in another few weeks.”

“Don't talk like this. Please.”

“I'm sorry, Wedge,” Tycho says sincerely. “I wasn't thinking. I should have trusted you and Wes and Hobbie back on that dive. You could have done it without me. Now you'll have to do everything without me. It's my fault.”

“Don't. Tycho, don't.” Wedge frames his face in his hands so gently, mindful of the radiation burns. “We can't know what would have happened if you hadn't stayed. It's done.”

Tycho bows his head, tears leaking from beneath his lids. “I'm just sorry. I don't want it to end like this. For either of us. I...” He stumbles across the words but presses on. “I wish you didn't have to see it. I don't want you have to remember me...like that.”

“I won't have to remember you, because you're not going anywhere,” Wedge tells him firmly.

Tycho shakes his head slowly. “Denial isn't going to help either of us.”

“If you want to say this is the last time we have together, I'm not going to spend it anticipating the worst,” Wedge tells him.

“Then let's make it a good memory instead,” Tycho sighs, and he pulls Wedge in for a kiss. “Don't be afraid to touch me.”

Wedge isn't, not now that Tycho's pain has faded at least temporarily. They touch each other, though to Tycho's frustration, Wedge won't pleasure him with anything but his hands, refuses the possibility of introducing any pathogens Tycho's weakened body won't be able to fight. Still, it's so good to hear the sounds dripping from his partner's mouth turn to sighs of gratification rather than whimpers of pain.

 

For the next few days, they keep at it, trying to live as normally as possible with the shadow of the future hanging over them, making memories that will either be final or just more to add to the books.

One night after they've finished, they lay in bed side by side. Tycho is on the edge of sleep, his back to Wedge as he strokes his hair. Over and over he draws his fingers through the blond locks as Tycho murmurs soft contentment. Then it happens.

Wedge's fingers slide from the ends of Tycho's hair, and he makes to begin again – then suddenly notices the loose blond strands tangled around his fingers. His heart jolts because, _oh_ , he'd thought maybe they would avoid this.

“Wedge?” Tycho murmurs sleepily, shifting slightly at his abrupt stillness.

For long beats, Wedge can't draw enough breath to respond. Finally, he manages, so faint he wonders if Tycho will hear, “Your hair.”

Tycho lets out a slow breath. “I wondered when that would happen,” he says, and his voice is soft and even – Wedge can't sense any emotion in it. He reaches back for Wedge's hand and presses it back into his hair. “Don't stop. If I'm going to lose it anyway, at least let me have this to remember.”

Wedge does without another word, swallowing tears and trying not to count every golden strand that falls to the bed.

By the end of the week, Tycho's head is completely bare, but that's the least of his worries.

 

Wedge wakes to the sound of vomiting and is halfway to the bathroom before he's fully conscious.

Tycho looks up from where he's hunched over the shit can and gives him a weak smile. “Didn't mean to wake you,” he rasps.

Wedge just shakes his head as he lays a hand on his, needing to offer comfort. Fear, icy-cold and so strong, snakes up his spine, because this has to be the start of it. The final phase.

“This is it,” Tycho murmurs as if he's taken the words straight from Wedge's brain. His hand finds Wedge's and threads their fingers together. His are trembling slightly. “This one's for all the marbles.”

Wedge just clutches his hand, leans his forehead against Tycho's shoulder, needing to be close. He knows they're both gathering their strength for what's to come.

 

After that, Tycho goes downhill _fast_. His fever spikes again, and the headache returns. Even with the last of the antiemetics, he can barely keep anything down. When he's not bent over the shit can, he's lying in bed limply. After the first day, he doesn't even talk. There are only the occasional whimpers that slip past his ragged breathing, testament to how much pain he's in.

Wedge is terrified. The first stage was bad, but this is more awful than he has words for. Lying on the bed unmoving except for the occasional full-body shiver, face so pale between the radiation burns, eyes open but dull and unseeing as his own battered body keeps him from sleeping, Tycho looks like he could be dead already.

And Wedge feels so helpless. There's nothing he can do but be there, constantly refreshing the cool cloths he dabs his face with to try and help with the fever, coaxing him to take the pain relievers, trying to keep him calm enough so he can rest.

It feels more real now than ever. He can feel Tycho slipping away from him, and no matter how hard he clings, how much he rails and cries, nothing Wedge can do can keep his spirit tethered to the body that's dying around him.

Deep one night when Tycho lies so still and Wedge has to struggle just to hear his shallow breaths, he can't hold back anymore. “Please don't leave me,” he whispers, selfish, begging, and has to choke back a sob when Tycho's fingers spasm against his and he rasps, “I'm trying, Wedge.”

Wedge can only draw him close, hold him as tightly as he dares, tears trailing down his cheeks. He's not being fair, he knows that, hoping for Tycho to linger, to endure more of this pain just to stay with him. Truth be told, if Tycho weren't hurting so much, if it didn't mean he was leaving Wedge behind, part of Wedge would be relieved to see him go. As much as it hurts, the thought of Tycho escaping not only his current suffering but the broken lives they lead in general is a sort of relief. He would be free.

After that, Wedge's life takes on a sort of montage feel. Tycho does linger, and as always, Wedge is by his side. Most of the time he sleeps or lies staring into space, barely moving. Wedge holds him in his arms, and spoons broth into his mouth, desperate helplessness running through his veins when Tycho makes a negative, pained sound and tries to turn his head away after only a few mouthfuls. Another day, he can't stop vomiting. Wedge helps hold his trembling head over the bowl, Tycho too weak to keep the position himself, as bile and blood dribble past his lips, the only things left in his stomach.

Wedge's own stomach clenches in terror the first time he sees the blood. It's not a surprise, but it shocks him just the same, because he knows what it is. That's what's most likely to take Tycho from him: the inner layers of his stomach and intestines that have been destroyed and are now coming out like this, making his insides so terribly susceptible to infection he can't fight with the way the radiation has also crippled his immune system.

Tycho is crying again as Wedge lowers him back to the bed and tries to make him comfortable. He's in so much pain already, and the demands his injured body is making on him just strain him more. The crying probably does, too, but how can he help it?

Wedge sets aside the bowl to wash later and lays close beside him, a hand cupping the back of his bald head and drawing him close to rest their foreheads together. “I understand,” he says softly, the words coming straight from his heart without interference from thought. “I understand,” he says again, and he's crying, too, now as he touches Tycho so gently. “This isn't fair to you. I'm sorry. You-” He steadies himself, breathes the words out, meaning them. “You can go if you need to. It's all right.”

Tycho gives no indication of having heard, but little by little he goes still, eyes flickering then sliding closed. Wedge doesn't expect to see them again.

 

Wedge wakes, and dread immediately washes over him. He's so exhausted himself, but he hadn't meant to fall asleep. If he couldn't prevent the moment Tycho slips away from him forever, he at least wanted to be there to see him through it. Barely daring to breathe, terrified of what he'll find, he raises his head–

And finds his partner looking back at him. It's clear he's still hurting, but Tycho is awake, and his lips give the slightest twitch when Wedge catches his gaze. He opens his mouth, has to work at it for a few moments before he croaks, “Thirsty.”

Wedge jolts upright and reaches for the water, helping his partner into a position where he can take it down. His muscles flutter weakly under Wedge's hands, but he's there, he hasn't gone yet, and Wedge could cry with relief.

With long breaks between sips for breath, Tycho drinks half the glass before indicating that he's finished. Wedge dares to feel a flicker of hope. It's more than he's had in a long time. And the fact that he spoke after so many long, silent days... He tries not to think too much of it, not to let himself believe anything that might make an inevitable end even worse.

But it's so hard when Tycho is lying there watching at him, seeming more conscious then Wedge has seen him since this phase of his sickness started. Just to see the proof that he's still alive, still fighting, is overwhelming.

Tycho's hand slides, slow and trembling, across the bed to touch Wedge's. “Not dead yet,” he rasps, and Wedge dissolves into tears of relief.

 

It's a long, slow climb, but that tentative hope flowers. Tycho starts to get better. For days, Wedge is terrified he's going to relapse again, but by the time he's sitting up in bed feeding himself, holding everything down, he lets himself believe it. Tycho is alive, and for now, he's going to stay that way.

Just because he survives the radiation doesn't mean he'll survive the effects. Wedge has to remind himself of that over and over. There's still the chance a simple infection or the most mild illness could take him. They're well within the timeframe for the average death by such a cause in his case.

But Wedge can't just not hope, not when Tycho is sitting there smiling at him, scratching at his bare head and complaining about it being cold as he wonders when his hair will start to come back.

Wedge chuckles through tears and tells him he doesn't know.

And finally, finally, he loses the terror of Tycho slipping away any moment he isn't looking and goes to see Dr. Varss.

She looks surprised to see him, then more surprised as she takes in his expression – not the grief-stricken left-behind lover she expected.

“Tycho is still alive,” Wedge says curtly, crossing his arms over his chest as he stands in front of her desk. “He survived the initial stages, and he's getting stronger. I know he's not out of the woods yet, but there's no way you can continue to refuse him treatment. He's clearly stronger than you thought, and he deserves all the help you can give him at this stage.”

Varss blinks huge, wide eyes. “I'll have to consult with the captain, but I believe that course of action makes sense.”

“Really?” Wedge deflates all at once, dropping into the chair. “That's it? You'll do it?”

Varss nods and reaches to pat his hand. “It's a miracle he survived without treatment this long, Wedge. Imagine how well he could do with it. If we bring him here, isolate him, observe him, give him cultures to encourage his immune system and GI tract to begin repairing themselves...” She spreads her hands. “I can't make promises, but in six months, he could very well make a full recovery.”

Wedge presses his hands to his face, overwhelmed with relief.

“Go back to him,” Varss says. “I'll send my nurses with a gurney to bring him here.”

 

Eight months later, Wedge is in the locker room attached to the launch bay pulling up the zipper of his red bodysuit. He looks to his left and can't suppress a smile as the blond fuzz of Tycho's newly-growing hair disappears beneath his Team Rogue helmet.

They're preparing for their first jump since that fateful one what feels like so long ago now. There were times Wedge never thought they'd be back here. He was at Tycho's bedside all that time, watching as his health slowly climbed back to a normal level, worrying through not one but two infections that almost took him in the end anyway, until Varss finally cleared him to go back to duty.

Tycho will never be quite the same; they both know that. His odds of developing some kind of cancer one day have jumped sharply, though he jokes gently that diving will probably catch up to him long before that does. He'll never have his own children either, but that was never something he worried about.

Wedge just can't put into words how grateful he is to still have him at his side. He's always known how quickly his partner could be taken from him, but he'd never imaged what watching him go through something like that might be like.

Now, though, they're past it, they're both back with Team Rogue, and as they walk out into the launch bay, Wes and Hobbie and the two new kids who filled out the team these last months, Gavin and Myn, are waiting.

“I kinda liked being in charge,” Hobbie whines playfully. “But it's nice to have you back, Commander.”

“I hear you did a good job of keeping my seat warm.” Wedge graces him with a smile. From across the bay, a technician flashes a signal, and he commands, “Everyone to your drop tubes.”

Before he can get too far, Wedge catches Tycho's hand, bumping the chin pad in his helmet to open a private comm channel. “Don't get yourself killed out there today, okay? We've put far too much work into you to lose you on your first time out again.”

Tycho rolls his eyes but squeezes Wedge's hand reassuringly. “I won't, boss.” He tilts his visor against Wedge's, as close to a kiss as they can get in their full gear. “I promise.”

He can't make that promise, no one can, but somehow Wedge believes him anyway.


End file.
